


Drinking Buddies

by manicr



Category: Cable and Deadpool, Dark Avengers (Comic), Dark Wolverine (Comics), Deadpool (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Crack, Bromance, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Closeted Character, Depression, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Dysfunctional Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, Love/Hate, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manicr/pseuds/manicr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadpool and Bullseye are drinking buddies, some times more but we don't talk about that. Life, relationships and death, over several bottles of alcohol and drunkenness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drinking Buddies

**Nov 18 2009 - New York**

_bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz_

_bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz_

Deadpool cocked his head, and hit at his temple with the butt of a gun to get rid of the annoying buzzing sound. Instead, the buzzing was replaced by a loud banging noise.

“Okay, that did not make things better,” he said to himself, checking if it was the gun that had gone off. He saw no bullet holes nor smelt any gunpowder.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, ASSWIPE!”

“Wha—? That did NOT sound like my little yellow boxes,” Deadpool said and, after some deliberation, went to open the door. He took his guns with him - hallucination or not - you don’t answer your door unarmed.

“Finally!” Bullseye exclaimed and marched into the apartment with several bags in his hands, completely unfazed by the guns pointed at him.

“Did I invite you and forget it? I do that sometimes, like the time I ordered a sing-a-gram and then forgot and killed the guy when he turned up on my door step though he shouldn’t have worn purple with yellow anyhow because that is cause enough for murder—“ Deadpool rambled, and watched with growing interest as Bullseye emptied the bags onto the counter.

Booze. Lots and lots of booze. Oh alcohol, how I missed you!

“Alcohol, my permanent accessory. Alcohol, a party-time necessity. Alcohol, alternative to feeling like yourself! O alcohol, I still drink to your health!” Deadpool crooned and hugged Bullseye tightly in joy.

“Unhand me before I bludgeon your brains out. You have three seconds,” Bullseye replied flatly and continued to unpack.

“Right-o my forever bestest I-Love-Killing-You buddy!” Deadpool affirmed, unhanding his fellow psycho-for-hire in less than three seconds, saluting him smartly.

“Whatever. I just needed somewhere to drink where people wouldn’t bother me but I where wouldn’t be bored to death. So I thought ‘Hey, who is the funniest most avoided-like-the-plague person I know?’ and guess what, your name just popped up,” Bullseye stated, grabbing a bottle of Stoli, flopping down on his ratty couch.

It wasn’t the first time they had had a “house party” but it had been a while, especially since Bullseye had gotten locked up with the Thunderbolts and now Osborn’s Dark Avengers. Back in the day, they had tag teamed often and hung out at the Hellhole together. Deadpool had missed his psychotic friend — at times, a little.

“I knew you loved me,” Deadpool said, setting aside his little walk down memory lane and exposition, serving himself to a bottle of dark rum, a bottle of apricot palinka and another of raki, “Man, did you rob an entire liquor store or just pick things with your eyes closed because seriously, these combos are deadly well if I didn’t have that nifty healing factor they would but yeah—-”.

“High volume of alcohol. If it said over 40 percent, I got it. Nothing else really works anymore for getting drunk,” Bullseye answered and takes a swing the bottle, chugging down a good quarter of it. “Not after all that nano-tech in my head, docs say that it will pass, but fuck if I know.”

“Same here, buddy. Writer inconsistency is pretty useful some times, ain’t it? I love it when they give me enough of a break to actually let me get drunk for longer than three minutes,” Deadpool chattered, pulling up his mask to his nose and seating himself on the couch as well. He made sure to give Bullseye some space — Rookie could be very territorial at times.

“Uh-huh, whatever. What you been up too, still moping about Mr. GI-Jesus-I-have-too-many-names?” Bullseye asked, ignoring the nonsense that passed ‘Pool’s mouth, and continued to drink the Stoli.

“WE’RE DIVORCED! It’s not like I’ve been eating more chocolate and ice-cream than humanly possible and shooting at anything that reminds me of his stupid, putzy face and calling the x-jerks asking if he’s back yet from his back-to-the-future trip so many times they’ve actually made a voice-mail message about it for me,” Deadpool very specifically denied to the incredulous Bullseye’s face.

“Besides, I had sex with Outlaw. So there, my man-card is valid, Rookie,” he finished with a raised chin and a swing of rum and palinka at the same time. It wasn’t half-bad.

“Hot crazy cowgirl?” Bullseye asked.

Deadpool nodded.

“She fucked you, didn’t she?” Bullseye stated more than asked and then valiantly emptied the Stoli. Deadpool burst into a long-winded refusal, which Bullseye ignored and instead started on a bottle of whiskey.

“—and you totally let Wolvie Jr. fuck you anyhow so you’re not one to speak about getting fucked anyhow! Not that there’s anything wrong with that it’s just that c’mon that hair and the general douchebaggery, it’s like a textbook case of super dickery with the matching daddy issues—” being the part where Bullseye tuned in again.

“As if, shit-for-brains, I wouldn’t let that little whore anywhere near me,” Bullseye snarled, spitting whiskey.

“C’mon buddy. I’ve known you for like ages, Bullcookie, I know how you work. Don’t try to feed me bullshit. Every time you get specifically homicidal with someone you obsess like a rabid fangirl. I bet you know what brand of shampoo he use, how he likes his eggs, every single person he’s fucked, even if that list is longer than the manual for your average printer, and what grades he had in preschool,” Deadpool claimed and stared pointedly at Bullseye, who squirmed slightly.

“…Kérastase Bain Volumactive, over easy, ain’t getting started on that, no records…” Bullseye mumbled near inaudibly and chugged from the bottle, amber liquid running down his chin.

“And when you know all of that you end up obsessing even more until either of you dies. And as far as I know you’re both alive and kicking, thus your convoluted logic has it that you must resolve some that UT somehow and it becomes UST and then it’s just a case of snowballing, and I so DID NOT just say that, brain bleach STAT!” Deadpool continued slightly alarmed, and rummaged underneath the couch for peanuts; they always ended up there.

“…I’m not drunk enough for this,” Bullseye lamented, still flushed pink, and drank like a champion.

“Yeah. Awkward,” Deadpool agreed.

Several bottles and some drunken snacking — cottage cheese, honey and pickles are surprisingly good with enough Tabasco — later, both of the slightly mentally divergent private entrepreneurs of creative problem solving were thoroughly shitfaced.

“Heeey, ‘Pool,” Bullseye slurred, waving his bottle in the merc’s general direction.

“-and then the chicken, you’re really gonna love this, jumps up on his—wai’ wha’?” Deadpool stopped mid ramble.

“Mm, tired. Try to kill me in my sleep or draw on my face and I’ll kill you with a yap dog, ‘kay?” Bullseye mumbled and closed his eyes, still holding the half-full bottle of vodka, leaning back on the couch.

“Ol’ buddy, ol’ friend, I would never even consider it. But you can’t sleep here, seriously, this couch is nasty, and you’re my friend and hospitapapabiba— whatever, says that you shan’t. So, up you go!” Deadpool explained and half-dragged, half-carried Bullseye to the bedroom, flinging him onto the bed with a resounding thud.

“…motherfucker…” Bullseye muttered but went back to sleep, not even noticing when Deadpool crawled up against him moments later.

 

“What the hell? Oh my god, what crawled up my mouth and died?” Bullseye moaned as he woke and then immediately regretted it as his killer headache of hangover Doom reared its ugly head.

“…kill me…” he whimpered, curling up under the covers of the not completely unfamiliar bed.

“…the hell?” he whispered and tried to look around, squinting against the light of day that filled the trashy looking room. There was junkfood and guns all over the place, pin-up posters and - it was the only thing he could think of calling it - a Golden Girls shrine.

“Good morning, sunshine!” a very, very familiar voice, gravel and gasoline and a hefty dose of Demi Moore, exclaimed from somewhere close.

With an impending sense of dread, Bullseye looked behind his shoulder right into the mercifully masked face of the Merc-with-the-Mouth. There is a shocked silence from his side, as Deadpool happily babbles on and on and on about something trivial.

Snapping back to reality, Bullseye grabbed Deadpool by the throat, choking him into glorious silence.

“This did not happen, Wilson. I was never here. We did not— you know nothing, or I’ll fucking cut your head off and plant it on a flagpole,” Bullseye snarled and then made a quick exit, his aching head be damned. Deadpool, for once silent, stared at him as he left, moments later he heard the telltale slam of the door.

“What’s his problem? It’s not like we fucked — this time. Sure, he snuggled me, called me by Sniktbub Jr.’s name and fucking _bit_ me, but that’s him every time he’s drunk -- a violent snuggly octopus. Bullwinkle’s so in Narnia,” Deadpool remarked to himself and went to make some coffee. Humming to himself, he dialed the X-Men.

The call went directly to voice-mail.


	2. Bottom of a Bottle

**December 2010- New York**

It was Friday night, date night and drinking night in the city, despite the cold. Arguably, you could say that Deadpool was doing just that, but it wasn’t the party and hot chick version he wished for. He was, yet again, having Bullseye over for drinks, or perhaps they should call it bottles, as glasses never configured into the equation.

“This fucking shit sucks,” Bullseye commented with a slight slur and took a swing from the bottle. They had been drinking for the last few hours and Rookie had been hitting it rather hard.

“Course it does, Ol’ buddy, you gettin’ too old to remember how much it’s always sucked?” Deadpool retorted feeling unusually sane for the moment, perhaps booze slowed down the mess that was his mind to the point that he could actually think—or was it just a load of bullshit he told himself to justify the drinking binges? Anyhow, he felt like he could follow a conversation without doing seven other things at the same time. He’d cut down to three; drinking, painting his toenails red and black and watching monster trucks on the TV.

“Not like this, man. Back in the day there was some _fucking respect_ to be a merc, we got better jobs and the pissants were afraid,” Bullseye complained, drinking from one of the multitude of bottles they had on the coffee table.

“Better jobs? Sure the rich dudes had more money to blow but the jobs weren’t better. You remember all that bullshit with all of the up-and-coming super organizations trying to make a name for themselves? If it wasn’t AIM giving you bullshit then it was HYDRA or Landau, Lucky Luke, Lake and Loch Ness or whatever they called themselves. And don’t forget the whole darker-and-edgier 90’s shtick,” Deadpool shuddered. "Face it man, times have always and will always suck. You just gotta find what’s good in it,” he finished and stared sullenly at a bottle of rum. It was empty. Why was the rum gone? Oh yeah, he drank it. Best have more.

“Thank you, Mister Fortune Cookie,” Bullseye spat and leaned back into the ratty couch with a Stolichnaya vodka bottle in hand, Deadpool petulantly snatched it from him.

“Don’t knock it. Everything has gone corporate but there’s some good stuff too. I like Agency X. Even though Hayden is, like, the biggest jerk in Jerkville, but I got friends there, and it beats the Hellhole any day. Beats all of that stuff, Sunshine,” Deadpool continued and drowned the rest of Bullseye’s bottle.

“Bullshit. I like being a free agent. Sure, it isn’t the same publicity, which was totally awesome, but I don’t have a fucking boss on my back, fucking rules or team mates. I’m happy I got off that mug’s game,” Bullseye snarled with vehemence. Osborn’s Avengers had gone pear-shaped with the Siege of Asgard and Bullseye had managed to, once more, escape prison. He should get a frequent flier card or something at Ryker’s,

“Oh, so that’s what’s got your panties in a bunch. Let me guess. What’s Daddy Wolverine’s precious little princess done now? Or do you just miss having him around 24/7—” Deadpool grinned; Bullseye’s ongoing “we-don’t-have-a-thing” thing with the last Mohawk was hilarious. It was better than satellite TV. 

“Shut the fuck up, Wilson,” Bullseye snarled, actually angry. Yikes! Real name basis. Daken must have really pissed him off this time. Oh, he really needed to find out what it was now.

“You ain’t finding out jack shit,” Bullseye spat and drank some more.

“Oh — but yes, I am, Rookie. We just need to apply proper motivation. RUM DRINKS!” Deadpool shouted, scrambling to the kitchen with several bottles in his hands. After some creative mixing in frat boy sized beer jugs from somewhere in Tijuana, Mexico (or possibly stolen from a random NY Mexican beer joint) and testing, Deadpool was satisfied with the noxious mix and, with jugs precariously in hand, returned to the corner that served as his living room.

“What in the name of everything unholy is that? “ Bullseye asked and stared, horrified and fascinated by the bubbling brew.

“This, Bullcookie, is an Awesome Fantastic Drink At Your Own Peril Deadpool Mix Drink - AFDAYOPDMD is a horrible acronym though. Cool, ain’t it?” Deadpool announced and handed one jug over to Bullseye, who was forced to hold it with both hands. The drink made a blurp noise.

Eyes narrowed and frowning deeply, Bullseye contemplated the brew with the same suspicion he warranted for anything Osborn had ever told him. But with the determination of a man desperate to get shitfaced, he drank it fearlessly.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he remarked after he had finished it, then he noticed that Deadpool was still sipping his drink. He put the jug on the table and shook his head.

“Wait for it,” Deadpool replied with an evil grin, “three – two – one!”

“ I don’t—“ Bullseye started and gave up there, because the world was suddenly side-ways and he was looking at the table legs of the coffee table. They were kind of nice. Everything was kind of nice.

“Whoa there, buddy. Let’s get you up; I guess it was a bit much for you. I didn’t slip you the mickey but this shit is usually reserved for regenerators - thought you’d like it. Thought it would be funny,” Deadpool explained as he pulled Bullseye off the floor back on the couch. Bullseye slumped and blinked, confused by his newfound position where the world was the right way around.

“’m fine,” he replied sulkily and tried to make a grab for the remote, he missed. He tried again and hit it off the table, then stopped caring and leaned back in the couch.

“Dude, you’re wasted,” Deadpool said gleefully and sipped at his drink. He’d drunk his own specials before and knew better than to gulp it — unless he had a babysitter to keep him from doing anything too stupid even by his standards. State-wide restraining orders where a nuisance.

“’m not,” Bullseye replied several minutes later.

“So, about Daken?” Deadpool asked.

“’m not tellin’ you shit,” Bullseye managed to snap, “— hate that guy.”

“Mmh, don’t we all. Ain’t he such a douchebag?” Deadpool agreed and smiled innocently.

“He’s fucking douchebag,” Bullseye hissed vehemently.

“Mmm,” Deadpool said noncommittally, and bet on that he’d get to hear all he wanted if he could just be patient – it wasn’t easy but it was worth it.

“Should just go and die, gonna kill that sack of shit and I’m gonna take my sweet time,” Bullseye continued, getting more and more agitated with each word, “shithead ain’t getting’ away again. Ain’t fucking ditchin’ me.”

Jackpot. Deadpool then felt kind of bad about it — Nate kinda came and went as he pleased and Deadpool hadn’t heard from him even though he’d gotten word that he was back from the future, oh well, he’d still be here next week, right? It’s not like he would do something stupid like go a technovirus-y and die saving the world again, that was so passé – for about five seconds. “He’s left?”

“Yeah. Shithead bailed in Oklahoma, haven’t seen him for weeks. Good fucking riddance,” Bullseye spat and managed to grab a bottle of vodka, drinking from it noisily and spilling most of it down his chin. “Fucking hate him,” Bullseye muttered in a dead voice several pregnant minutes later, at least going by Deadpool’s inner clock that kinda functioned as it pleased unless he was in a fight. Bullseye sank deeper into the couch and then threw the empty bottle at the wall; it broke with a shrill crash.

Deadpool stopped grinning at his friend’s misfortune for a while and put a hand on his shoulder. To his great surprise Bullseye turned and grabbed him up the front of his t-shirt, burying his face against his chest, shoulders shaking.

“I FUCKING HATE HIM!” Bullseye shouted, then started sobbing and sniveling all over him.

“There, there?” Deadpool said in a confused voice and patted him on the back, feeling quite awkward. This was somewhere on the top ten awkward moments in his life, okay, at least top fifty considering all the awkward moments he’d lived through. When you have things like shooting a man on his 80th birthday in front of his great-grandchildren because you got the address wrong on your list of awkward moments that was still quite a feat.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up all douchey in Versace and D&G on your doorstep like a good little sniktling,” Deadpool reassured and tried to pry off Bullseye who was hanging on to him like a leech.

“I DON’T WANT HIM TOO!” Bullseye caps locked and continued sobbing like a teenage girl who just found out that Robert Pattinson just died from cancer and Twilight was canceled FOREVER. Perhaps reverse-psychology would be a better idea.

“Yeah, he’s probably in Rome and screwing some Italian supermodel – or perhaps Daddy grew a pair and killed him. But yeah, as you said, good riddance, right?” Deadpool said resigned to the clutching and the growing wet spot on his ‘I LOVE SPIDER-MAN’ t-shirt.

The howl that left Bullseye had Deadpool’s ears ringing and he was quite sure that he’d also broken ribs from the punching and stuff.

Ouch! Yup, those were broken.

So, that was a bad, no, worse idea.

New tactics needed ASAP.

What do you do when you have a psychotic and severely repressed maniac sobbing over his asshole boyfriend more or less dumping him without a word of notice?

Deadpool grabbed Bullseye by his arms, pulling him up so that they were facing each other. Bullseye’s face was red and streaked with tears and snot, he’s sniffling and crying, his breath hitching and stinking of booze.

The Awesome Fantastic Drink At Your Own Peril Deadpool Mix Drink had really done him a number.

Bracing himself and praying to Bea Arthur, Deadpool kissed Bullseye squarely on the lips. Surprisingly, since he never expected his plans to work, Bullseye kissed him back, hungrily, and went about ripping off his own pants, seeming very interested in the idea of sex, while still crying his eyes out. The tears were one thing but the little noises, pained hitches and whines, were the true kicker.

It was a… disturbing. That, however, tended to be Bullseye in a nutshell.

“Eager, are we? C’mon, buddy, gimme a sec,” Deadpool stalled and pulled down his fly, jerking off to get some hardness, wondering for a moment whether or not this was a good idea as Bullseye bit and slobbered at his jaw and ear of all places. They didn’t even have lube. Deadpool spat in his hand and tried to make due.

Any thoughts or regrets left him when Bullseye impaled himself on him dry and rode him like a bitch in heat. Fingers clutched at him, bruising him, and nails drawing blood on his neck and cheek. Moments later a mouth was there and licking and biting at him. Deadpool tried to adjust to the raw feeling and jerked at Bullseye’s cock, hoping that he’d calm the fuck down. After a long, miserably messy, time, Bullseye mercifully stopped crying but he was no less frantic in his need, violently slamming down on Deadpool’s cock. With a rumbling growl, Bullseye wrapped a hand around his throat and started to choke him until Deadpool felt his trachea crush under his hard grip. Which was really uncomfortable. Gurgling threats, he pried Bullseye’s fingers off him. The other man didn’t seem to mind, especially not since Deadpool was still jerking him off. Indeed mindless of everything, while moaning and gasping, Bullseye continued to fuck himself on him, finally starting to reach his limit. His stamina had always been on the side of the excessive for a normal human. Sometimes, Deadpool liked that about him.

Thankfully, however, Rookie didn’t pay him any other attention, unlike the last time with the crushed bottle and a katana. That had been interesting. Bullseye had never been nice about sex and this was technically the most vanilla they’d ever been. Bullseye made most people realize that they were vanilla in comparison, it seemed to come with the whole psychotic and sadistic killer shtick. Suddenly, Bullseye stilled and came all over both of them with a strangled but heartfelt moan of “Daken”, slumping down on him like a dead weight.

Deadpool had yet to come but he didn’t have the heart to continue as Bullseye had yet again started to cry and sniffle, clutching himself, which was a small mercy. Deadpool thought that he had fixed the crying with the comfort sex. Comfort should equal no crying. Wasn’t that the point? Hence the name “comfort sex”? This was way out of his league of dealing with shit. You need anything blown up? Deadpool’s your man. Killed? Yup, still with you. Stolen? May not be the best man on the market, but still your man. To cause an unholy amount of hell? Hell YES! Comfort when dumped? …

“Shit, rookie. Let’s just get you to bed, okay?” Deadpool said in a soft voice and lifted Bullseye off him, his softening cock slipping out, carrying him with some effort to the bedroom.

It was like a more tragic re-run of the last time they’d gone binging. He shouldn’t have asked. He shouldn’t have fucked him, Deadpool chided himself as he tucked in his heartbroken friend in bed and wiped of his face with a mostly clean t-shirt. Bullseye curled up with a sob and fell into an uneasy sleep.

He would so have to kill Daken for this. He’d totally ruined their drinking.


	3. Unfair and Too Sober

**January 2011- New York**

The ceiling was stained in browns and yellows, veins of discoloration spreading from one corner, water damage from when the upstairs neighbor had trashed his bathroom in a freak accident involving raccoons. Wade, on his back on the ratty living-room couch, held up his gun and thought about how many shots it would take to make the ceiling crash down on him. If he concentrated his fire he might manage or perhaps just shooting randomly would hit some pipes or something. Then again didn’t they usually put those in the walls?

The walls weren’t closing in on him like at the institute. No doctors, no inmates - sorry, patients - no hospital food and no useless regulations. It was true that he had tried to kill himself, who wouldn’t in his state, but having doctors patronize him wasn’t really helpful. They couldn’t help him without killing him, and since they wouldn’t let him kill himself it was a moot point.

Wade knew that he would never be sane. He would have good days sometimes, like when he had his own psychic mutant-messiah taking off the pressure and a stable environment, and he would have bad days, like when there were too many mirrors around and too many temptations. All there was that would help him was Death. Sometimes, he was fine with this. Sometimes, like today, he was far too clear-headed. He wanted Nate to be alive again, he never stayed dead but it kept on hurting anyhow, to reboot his brain and keep him stable for a few moments. Providence felt like a dream and Wade wasn’t certain if it even happened; no one else ever mentioned it.

He went to Irene’s funeral a few months ago; she’d had cancer everywhere and joked about being Lady Deadpool when he’d visited the hospital. But that might just have been something he’d seen on TV. He liked watching reruns of Six Feet Under so that might be the case. Wade threw the gun on the floor, giving a shit about gun safety.

He had been an ass about it anyhow; gotten angry and stormed off. Wade wished that he had joked back at her and kissed her hairless head, cemo hadn’t been kind to her, and told her that she rocked the Sineade O’Connor look. Once hot, always hot.

Instead, he’d sulked at the unfairness of it; he’d wanted to die instead of her. Nate would have been so disappointed at him. He would have made that frown, which still made Wade feel like something he’d scraped off his boot. But Nate had been dead at the time. He hadn’t stood with him in the rain three days after the funeral, feeling like crap. 

Wade didn’t call the X-Men any more. He did his jobs with X-Force without mentioning Nate or debts unpaid. Psylocke wouldn’t look at him and Wolverine frowned at him. Not that those guys were much saner than him; shooting that kid Apocalypse hadn’t been nice. He never did kids. Period. But now by association he had. So, Wade wouldn’t accept money for that nor any of his jobs with them.

Wade supposed that he’d gone a little sane after that. Realized that the world was a little bit better off without him. Wade wondered if people would cheer when he was dead -- like they had with Bullseye once they got over the whole ‘holy shit, Daredevil is crazy’ chock. Being a merc and a serial killer didn’t exactly ingratiate you with the gen pop. Wade had been a bit pissed at that when he’d been at his local watering hole, the Bar with No Name. Some prick had raised a toast to Rookie’s death. Wade hadn’t said anything - what could you say to defend a psycho-for-hire? He had made a killer Harvey Wallbanger and was a great drinking-and-fighting buddy? - but his gun had; maiming usually brought home the message better than words.

Wade had wanted to leave flowers at his grave but Bullseye didn’t have one. He’d been buried, twice, but they wouldn’t let him rest in peace; it was just an empty hole in the ground now. Wade guessed that some shit-for-brain crazy would find a way to bring him back soon enough. He didn’t think anyone would thank them for that, not even Rookie himself. Bullseye had always been a few screws short but smart enough to realize that; he was terrified because of it. He feared relapses, he feared his own mind and he feared death. Dying and coming back would hardly make him any saner. As if being a homicidal-psychotic-schizophrenic wasn’t troublesome as it was. Wolverine’s brat had walked over him once too often as well.

Wade himself doesn’t remember much of dying. He did die once - or was it twice? - and he had been buried. Well, the little of him that there had been left to bury that is. But he remembers Death. He’d fallen in love with Her before then; the Weapon X Project had half-killed him while saving him, it had been a helluva first date. He wanted to die once more and be with Her. It didn’t matter if She was just a figment of his imagination, his version of Heaven, because he’d be happy. And the world would, after all, be a bit tidier without him in it. 

But nothing had worked. Not even Death-by-Hulk. Was he, the most degenerate Merc-with-a-Mouth, doomed to eternal life without the sanity clause? Someone hadn’t been paying attention with that devil’s contract. #&%***/%#! Killbrew. There were no words to describe how much of a shit he had been.

And since when were his bouts of sanity accompanied with this much monologuing and no alcohol? 

Wade guessed that it was whatever part of his brain that was still capable of guilt and sadness just kept everything to itself until the rest of Wade caught up with it. Normal people would be eating pills by now, hanging themselves, shooting their brains out, ANYTHING. But Wade had tried it all and it didn’t work. All there was left was to live and to hope, hah there was a joke, that he’d stay too insane to notice that he’d rather be dead.

Perhaps, by the next time he was lucid, Nate’d be alive again and kill him. There was a nice symmetry in that, favors returned and all that. Wade smiled and removed his mask, his fingers ghosting along his scars and tumors. Nate had never minded; not even realized that he should have. Wade had liked him for it and more. But that paled compared to Death. 

However, Wade had had more than enough of his navel-gazing and he knew if he just closed his eyes for long enough he’d forget. Quietly, he said goodbye to Irene, Nate, Rookie. He’d forget that they’d existed in the first place - at least for a while. He didn’t count on remembering Irene ever again though. She wasn’t high-profile enough, no one would remind him of her. On the bright side he could forget the sad sight of her in her hospital bed; her beautiful locks gone and her once-lively face sunken and bone-like. He could forget being angry at her for dying.

Wade glanced at the TV and remembered that he had Battlestar Galactica on TiVo. With a grin on his face, he grabbed the remote and started to re-watch season two. Cylons were AWESOME!


	4. Such Stuff As Dreams

**October 2011 - New York**

“You’re alive! Or are you a zombie? Or a vampire, there seems to have been a few of those around a few months back. Are you feeling any urges to suck me? I mean my blood. Not that you don’t have a mouth like a hover. I did not say that. Or a — Frankenstein’s monster! The Punisher was for a while, which actually wasn’t as lame as it sounded truth be told. Frank rocked. C’mon, say you’re something cool! Not a ghost because that’s so passé and lame, and I mean who the fuck would want to haunt me?” Deadpool asked and bounced on his heels, as Bullseye pushed past him at his door.

“Shut up, idiot. Where’s your booze?” Bullseye sighed and rummaged in his kitchen, which was looking particularly disgusting today, or rather, this month because of an experiment Deadpool had tried. Evidently everything was not microwavable.

“Didn’t you just tell me to shut up? I mean telling me to be quiet then asking me a question seems to be a teeny tiny bit contra-productive, don´t cha think?”

“You know what I mean, shit-for-brains,” Bullseye grumbled and opened the cork of the medicinal alcohol, gave it a whiff and then made a face.

“Under the sink. So, you’re just boring back?” Deadpool asked, disappointed.

“Back with ninjas. It’s always bloody ninjas,” Bullseye replied and pulled bottles of rum from under the sink. “I was kinda fucked up when they brought me back but they fixed me somehow. Don’t care about the details.”

“Status Quo is God, my friend! No one ever dies here. Not for good. Even Nate and Johnny are back! Christmas came early with beefcake this year. Good times,” Deadpool cheered and grabbed a bottle for himself, the both of them settling down on the ratty couch. “It’s a bit on the nose though, don’t you think? Everybody comes back and I hear Jean Gray is coming back too. I mean I loved her outfit as Marvel Girl but the Phoenix feels a bit like overkill — and her outfit is nowhere near as hot. I have two of them you know. Got one from Wolverine when we fought a sentinel—“

“Shut the fuck up, Wade,” Bullseye said, “I didn’t come here because I wanted to, I’m lying a bit low until I’ve renegotiated my contract.”

“Why? Not paying well enough? I’ve found that pointing pointy things at people really helps raising the price. Or shooting things, explosives work too, I suppose. Or my all time favorite: hostages. If you want to get a bit less conventional and you have some time on your hands, I’d also recommend peanut butter and fire ants and just roll it from there—”

“I kinda minded the ninja brainwash the most, I think,” Bullseye interrupted and drank from his bottle of rum. “Then there’s always that creepy chick who stole my name.”

“Gotcha. Brainwash equals bad. You have a fangirl? Really? Go figure she’s a creep. Mine was too you know – she even built an undead evil me out of my body parts. It was kinda flattering though, if you really think about it. I mean, imitation is the greatest form of flattery but still, you know, fangirls are supposed to be all hot nerdy—” Deadpool pontificated and settled deeper into the couch, there was this grove he’d sat into it that was just perfect, he just needed to get the angle right.

“Fucking nut job, that’s what she is,” Bullseye spat and drank deeper from the bottle, “She always crept into my room when I was sleeping, all ninja stealth, to fuck me and told me not to move when I woke up. That’s crazy even for me, man. Also, I think she fucked my corpse when I was dead. How sick is that?” he asked and shuddered. There was something about glasshouses in that statement.

“Okay, I think I kinda threw up in my mouth. And I don’t exactly have high standards to begin with. I mean I’ve had sex with you,” Deadpool agreed and downed the bottle.

“Ever mention that again and I’ll personally end you; and trust me, I’ll take my time,” Bullseye gritted, his grip on the bottle tightening visibly and his teeth showing a bit too much.

“Cool. My lips are sealed. I’m good at denial, a pro really. I have no clue of anything,” Deadpool answered prudently and offered him a new bottle. He’d remember not to mention that particular, repeated, drunken hook-up at least for rest of the evening. “Speaking of things not to be spoken of; how’s the Last Mohawk? Beat his sorry ass like a red-headed step-son like his daddy should have? I heard he’s in Tinsel town—”

“I think I told you to shut the fuck up, make me repeat it once more and I’ll do it with a knife in your brain.”

“Shutting up commencing,” Deadpool said and tried to focus on the task of getting shit-faced. He adjusted himself in the couch and tried to find that perfect position though he was starting to have the nagging suspicion that Bullseye was in the way so he kinda just shifted a teeny tiny bit and really hadn’t meant to bump his old buddy or anything but it was inevitable.

The pencil that was shoved half-way up his nose into his brain was kinda inevitable too.

“And don’t fucking touch me!” Bullseye snapped as he shifted away, in full emo teenager mode, then drinking down vodka like water.

“Gotcha,” Deadpool replied as he pulled the pencil out, blinking away the Japanese raccoons with great big balls that where dancing in front of his eyes. “God, I love Japanese TV. It’s just so cute and EVIL at the same time, you know? Actually I think that tequila would be the best response now – for everything. There is never a better time to smell and sound like a drunk mariachi band than when trying to forget shit. Perhaps add some Skittles. Puking rainbows is apt right?”

“I guess that telling you to shut up is a waste of time, huh?” Bullseye asked and continued his epic quest of killing brain cells — in order to save the princess, that’s how it goes right? Daken could probably rock a tiara, hands down. “Okay, let’s set down some fucking ground rules. You talk about sex in any shape or form, I stab you. You talk about that whore, I stab you. You even think about touching me, I stab you. We cool?” Bullseye asked and finished his next bottle of brain-killing gut-rot.

“Okidoki. You’re in a stabby mood. Reminds me of Tasky, he’s always in a stabby mood but it’s hilarious to watch Alex get stabbed. He stole my pancreas once. What an asshole,” Deadpool rambled and inched a bit to the right, avoiding touching Bullseye a second time, even though a good fight might be just what his old friend needed. It didn’t feel right — for now.

Bullseye in turn just sat quietly and single-intendedly drank himself closer to oblivion. Deadpool wondered, while delivering a extended monologue on the virtues of My Little Pony: Friendship is magic and asserting that it was all a conspiracy to take over the world, if he owned Bullseye a pick-me-up speech or a reality check or an intervention or something. But what could he do that wouldn’t just result in quick dismemberment?

Because really, Rookie was usually a rather funny guy if you enjoyed a little corpse-fight, thank you Heinrich Zemo, and avant-grade murder. This kind of emo teen moping was like totally lame and Bullseye wore with no style whatsoever. It’s not like he was Humphrey Bogart even though he tended to don the trench and the fedora on occasion. It must be Daken’s fault. Shit was contagious.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine,” Deadpool interrupted himself and drank down scotch, loudly.

“Casablanca? Hnh, I always liked Maltese Falcon better,” Bullseye commented, for the first time paying any attention to Deadpool’s rambling.

“Figure that you would. You’re a bit like Wilmer, gunsel and all that,” Deadpool replied and thought it was totally worth being shanked in the ribs.

“Motherfucker,” was Bullseye’s only verbal recognition of what he had done.

“Point is, Rookie, never trust a femme fatale. Or if you do, know damn well that’s what they are or they’ll not only steal the fucking thing you’ve been paid to get but also take a thing or two you weren’t using anyhow. Spare organs and such,” Deadpool continued and toyed with the glass shard that he had pulled out from his lung. The blood on it was rather pretty.

“I’m not having this conversation,” Bullseye insisted, slurring slightly – the latest bottle of gin had been pushing it.

“How did it go now? What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that,” Deadpool quoted and Bullseye gave him an incredulous stare.

“Really? You can’t remember where you put your last pay check but you can quote The Big Sleep?”

“Bogart was a God. Trufax. And don’t you dare say otherwise or I’ll force you to listen to Rebecca Black and Justin Bieber for the rest of eternity!”

“Whatever, shit-for-brains,” Bullseye shrugged and continued drinking, “I get it okay. Bitch was a bitch and I died so fuck if it mattered if he cared or not. Big deal. We done now?”

“Right about,” Deadpool replied cheerfully and was promptly stabbed.

“Rule number two, motherfucker,” Bullseye said and washed the blood of his face with vodka. “God, I could kill for a cigarette. Damn Bogart.”

The rest of the evening went rather peacefully, barring the mutilation of the next-door neighbor because he complained about the noise, and Bullseye crashed on Deadpool’s couch. This time Wade knew well enough to leave him there.

Instead, he took a piece of paper and a pen, and then dialed for Weasel on his cell phone. A short conversation and some creative threats later, Wade got what he had been after. He scribbled the number on the paper and shoved the note down Bullseye’s coat.

Deadpool crashed into bed and when he woke up around noon, Bullseye was gone. The apartment stank of cigarettes and regrets.

It was a week later when the phone call came.

“Hello, Little House of Horrors. How may I dismember you?” Deadpool replied and scratched his groin.

“Fucking hate you!” a familiar voice shouted and then slammed the receiver on his ear. A honest to god receiver. Fuck yeah, analog.

“Guess we’re even now,” Deadpool told himself as he checked the caller ID; LA, California.


	5. In Booze Truth

**November 2011 - New York**

“Where is he, you retarded piece-of-shit?” Daken demanded as he stormed into Deadpool’s apartment.

Deadpool closed his eyes, counted to ten and looked again. Nope, Daken was still there. He was looking as impeccable as always in his designer clothes and redundant accessories — well almost, if you discounted the bruise on his face and his wild looking eyes. And his hair-do was still so lame and far too 80’s and hipster.

“Well, are you deaf? I know that he drinks with you,” Daken spat and tried not to touch anything in his vicinity, seeming disgusted by the very fact that he had to breathe the same air as Deadpool to question him.

“Well, if it isn’t the prissier sniktling. Not that your sister/aunt/reverse-gender-clone-father isn’t a stick in the mud too. It’s kinda sad when Wolvie is the most relaxed. Btw if you meet him tell him I said hi. Otherwise, fuck off. I’m mad at you despite whatever shipping tendencies I have – you’re kinda of an EPIC douchebag. You have no idea how much you SUCK. The collateral damage alone, I mean, you’re like a fucking a-bomb of emo, and this despite the fact that even I’d fuck you,” Deadpool rambled and made himself comfortable in his ratty couch, “I’m not doing you any more favors.”

“You haven’t done me any favors, filth. I know he’s been here, I can smell him,” Daken snapped and managed to flounce without actually moving. It must be some secondary mutation or something.

“Oh, don’t you get me started, pretty boy,” Deadpool retorted and grabbed a random bottle from under the coffee table. Bacardi Razz. Terrible yet so addictive.

“Just stop talking nonsense,” Daken growled and popped his claws. SNIKT! Ooh, audible sharpness! It sends tingles down his spine every time. Happy tingles.

“You know, did it ever strike you that he didn’t want you to find him?” Deadpool replied dryly and drank straight from the bottle, completely unconcerned by the claws jabbed into his head. Kid was fast and did that damn notice-me-not shit far too well.

“Tell me,” was Daken’s ever so eloquent response. And again bone, brain and blood splattered on Deadpool’s mask. The pain is tingles and sparklers; pretty, shiny and foremost brief. Nice little fireworks in his head that clear up like a summer rain.

“I’m currently feeling rather stable and I hate wasting temporary sanity on you, you little shit. I have a hot date, and no way in hell that I’m rescheduling because of your and Rookie’s domestic disputes. I’ve ditched her more than once and it isn’t fair to a Lady. I fully expect my brains to be painting the wallpaper this time next week. But, because I’m such a sap, I’m gonna throw you a bone, kid,” Deadpool said, leaning back and starring Daken in the face. “Take a seat, douchewipe.”

“What if I just torture you instead?” Daken said with a sneer, displaying his serrated claws. Deadpool burst into laughter, clutching his belly with one hand and waving indistinctly at Daken with the other.

“Torture me? I don’t know who you think you are, Mohawk. But I’ve been tortured by people far better and scarier than you and all that accomplished was making me more annoying. I give people tips on torture, kid. Bullcookie and I occasionally play “doctor” when he wants to try something new and I spend that time singing show tunes. Try a bit harder or just do as you’re fucking told,” Deadpool ordered once he was in control of himself again and patted the couch.

Daken flushed red and gritted his teeth, and, to Deadpool’s immense surprise, sat down.

“Well, color me purple and call me an egg plant, you actually do have a brain under that ridiculous shark fin. Have a drink. We’re going to play a game, kid,” Deadpool quipped and gave Daken a bottle of pre-blended sangria; he seemed like the girly drink type.

“It goes like this; we both drink, I ask you a question, which you answer. If you answer all my questions to my satisfaction, I tell you where he is. Oh, and try to lie to me, mind whammy me or answer evasively and I won’t tell you shit.”

“Deal,” Daken gritted out, still clenching his teeth like a Liefeld poster boy. At least they were the normal amount and shape. And no man boobs either.

“Deal,” Deadpool replied and they both drank. Time to play Dr. Phil to the other half of the self-destructive duo. He started with a few routine questions; like which Golden Girl was the best and what was cooler; duct tape or safety pins, to which Daken barely responded on before starting with the real ones.

“Why you looking for him in the first place?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Fair enough.”

More sangria and Bacardi.

“Why come here instead of waiting him out?”

“Because it’s better for him—“

“EEEEEHK! Wrong. Try again.”

“…I don’t know if he’d come back otherwise.”

“Good boy.”

Again, they both drank and Daken, if it was possible, seemed even more pissed off.

“What’s your favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?”

“What?”

“EEEENK! WRONG! What is not a ninja turtle. Again.”

“Fine. Donatello.”

“Unexpected but sufficient.”

Daken finished his sangria in a huff and Deadpool handed him a bottle of Bombay gin, which he only reluctantly accepted.

“What really pissed him off enough to bail? Don’t even try to BS me, I talked with him, or rather he spent most of the night ranting at me.”

“I ignored him.”

“Wrong.”

“What Markus did to me. The drugs—”

“WRONG. Don’t start the pity party. I don’t pity you for shit. You got exactly what you deserved. I don’t need to know the kinky details.”

“I. Don’t. Know,” Daken answered after a long pause, like he was pulling out teeth.

“Good. Admit it next time and fucking ask, dipshit.” Deadpool drank what was left of his Bacardi and uncorked the Stoli. Daken stared at him incredulously then took a slurp of gin and looked away. Deadpool could have sworn that he was a bit ashamed. Then again it was hard to tell with sociopath, prissy, emo sniktlings with self-cutting wrists who fucked themselves up with bad party drugs and bad boyfriends, while thinking that they were so adult and superior and different from everyone else. Even AFTER epic curb-stomping. Shame and regret didn’t really configure into that.

“Casablanca or Maltese Falcon?”

“Maltese Falcon.”

“Figures.” Daken was quite clearly trying to understand the questions but Deadpool didn’t care. They drink. Daken is visibly getting affect by the alcohol; his healing factor isn’t up to speed yet. Deadpool could probably kill him. He’d probably do Rookie a favor if he did. Perhaps his last chance to be a good friend.

“Why you want him back so bad?”

“I don’t—“

“Wrong. You _hate_ me; you wouldn't go through with this if it didn’t matter somehow.”

“…he’s fun,” Daken spat and downed his bottle like a champ.

“No. Again,” Deadpool replied, softly this time. He would die tomorrow. He had it all set up. He’d blaze in, all glory and righteousness, and Wade Wilson would happily join Death. Even if it was all an elaborate farce, a trick, that only daddy Wolverine even coming close to understanding why. He'd even set it up so that the little smug shit here would take the shot. Last chance.

“Fuck you. I’m done with your fucking game. I’m leaving,” Daken hissed and stood up, all bristle and bite. Alcohol and anger colored his cheeks red.

“You won’t,” Deadpool said and drank. The silence spread and Daken hovered between turning away and attacking.

“… he came back for me in LA,” Daken finally said, his voice small and flat. He sat down in the overly focused way of a person who was desperately trying not seem as drunk as they were, and took a new bottle. It was scotch this time.

“I can relate,” Deadpool answered and knocked his bottle against Daken’s in a glum cheer before drinking. Daken drank like someone had just ruined his collection of designer scarves.

“Ms Marvel, the real one, or She-Hulk?”

“She-Hulk.”

“Cool. Destructo nookie ftw.”

They drank and Deadpool asked more unnecessary questions just to see how far he could push it. Daken answered each and every one, each of his answers becoming more and more incoherent. Somewhere around the ninth bottle, Daken started looking rather green and a bottle later inelegantly vomited on the floor, mumbling about Jim Morrison. Shortly thereafter he passed out, drooling and snoring. Evidently, Daddy’s little princess was a sloppy drunk, Lindsey Lohan style. And the worst part was that he’d still do both of them.

Deadpool hummed Lady Gaga to himself and doodled ponies on Daken’s face with a magic marker, as he shimmied his phone out of his tights.

“Hi, Rookie! How’s stuff? Uh-huh. Yeah. Could you come and pick up something of yours? Yeah, I’m kinda busy the next few days and I really can’t have him messing up my apartment, considering he's needed elsewhere. Hot date.”

“Yup. Drunk as a skunk. Smells about as bad too. It’s true love, for sure. Match made in heaven or, more likely, one of the more inventive circles of hell. Whatever. Just get him out.”

“Rookie. Just so you know… he actually tried. Still a dumb fuck, but he tried. OK. See you. ”

Deadpool doesn’t need to look at, the right about comatose, Daken on his couch to know that he had shifted just from hearing Bullseye’s voice on the phone. Deadpool walked numbly into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of ethanol. He needed something that he would actually feel. Drinking games were always rigged in his favor.

There was a quiet creak by the door.

“On the couch. My last fucking favor, Rookie. Be happy that I was feeling generous,” Deadpool said without turning.

“I’ll come to your funeral. Again,” Bullseye replied, adjusting the dead weight of his drunken asshole boyfriend in his arms.

“Thanks for not talking me out of it.”

“I’m crazy. Not stupid.”

“See you on the flip side.”

“I’m not dying again.”

“Heh. With Mr. Perma Teen here that might become true.”

“Prissy fuck is possessive.”

“Bye, rookie.”

“Fuck you, moron. We had good times.” Cue kick and slam of door.


	6. Voluntary Madness

**April 2012 - New York**

“He what?” Deadpool blurted out and spat out beer. Oh poor, precious beer. You were too good for this world.

“You heard me. He thinks we have a thing,” Bullseye repeated and rolled his eyes, chugging down the contents of his bottle noisily.

“A thing-thing? You and me? Really? I mean, sure, we’ve fucked but that doesn’t count in the least because of reasons and I’m never bring it up again I swear—“ Deadpool rambled and cowered at Bullseye’s pointed glare “—anyhow, we’re just buddies, yeah? We drink and try to kill stuff, usually each other, that’s so not a relationship in any way or anything to be jealous over, right? Nevermind, that I am currently gorgeous and mostly sane thanks to that serum I tricked out of Fisk and Tombstone, thinking that it would kill me. That was horribly chunky exposition, I’m so sorry, but what I mean is that I can get better than you these days. Not that that would be all that hard, no hard feelings, dude, but you’re kinda messed up even by my standards.”

“Damn straight…wait a minute, hey! Anyhow, fuckhead is tripping and paranoid,” Bullseye asserted and finished his beer. He grabbed a new bottle from the huge crate with a pleased grin and opened it against the table corner. “Damn good beer. Not bad at all,” Bullseye mused and took a swing of his bottle, checking out the label once he had finished it off: Innis & Gunn.

“Mm, did a job on the continent. Decided that I wanted to be paid in beer, because I was in Belgium, I got them to pay me a million dollars in beer of every kind they could get their hands on; I have a warehouse full of beer now. I was tired of American brands anyhow. I think that one’s Scottish though. I liked the Hoegaarden ones too – they were local. Did you know that there are 178 breweries in Belgium? Fucking amazing, ain’t it? You better watch out for the Trappist beers though, some of them are mule kickers – for beer anyhow – and I wouldn’t try the cheery flavored ones if I were you, the label says Kriek b-t-w. Nasty. Though the chocolate beer is better than you’d think,” Deadpool rambled and drank his Chimay.

“Only you, Wade. Getting paid in beer, really? Didn’t you have a hard time paying your rent last time I checked?”

“Yeeees, so? Beer is more important. But back to the juicy gossip; Sniktbub jr is jealous. Of us. Of me, because I’m so fucking awesome,” Deadpool stated gleefully, steering the conversation back to the previous topic.

“Of you? Fuck no. No one’s jealous of you, shit-for-brains. He’s just a jealous sonnuvabitch, who thinks I spend too much time with anyone who isn’t him. I’m fucking ignoring him, ain’t being whipped by some little hissy-fit of his,” Bullseye replied blandly and drank his beer.

“No-no-no-no, you’re not seeing the full potential of this, my dear friend. You have to use this! C’mon, don’t let me down; this could be the most epic prank ever. Consider how many times he’s played you, you deserve to get some revenge; and what way’s better than this? C’mon! It’ll be hilarious and this has nothing to do with the fact that I just got rejected by Nate again, or that he wouldn’t even acknowledge my existence during his most recent alive again stunt, though pity he’s lost that naughty T.O. of his, and I had just nearly died and everything. Please? Pretty please with a combat assault rifle on top?” Deadpool whined and specifically denied.

Bullseye glanced warily at him, calculating the risks but not really caring as every single alarm inside him went on high alert for BAD MOTHERFUCKING IDEA.

“Why not? Fuck it if he hasn’t been a bitch enough times. Serves him right for being paranoid,” Bullseye said against better judgment. “What do you have in mind in your degenerate amusement park of a brain?”

“Well, I thought we’d start off like this—”

 

The door to Deadpool’s apartment opened and slammed against the wall. It closed with another loud slam, Bullseye pressing himself against the door, all looking the part of a man chased by the hounds of hell – or worse yet a woman scorned. Well, it could have been a woman hadn’t Bullseye been playing for the other team the past year or so, Deadpool mused, but a man scorned didn’t quite have the same ring to it. It lacked a certain je ne sais quoi.

“I officially fucking hate your guts, Wilson,” Bullseye gritted out. Whoops, real name basis. He was in for it now.

“I swear that I had nothing to do with that explosion on 51th street! I didn’t know you were there or that you had also been hired for the job, not that I was on the job or there, I mean really it could have happened to anyone, not that it did, so let’s just be civil about it okay!” Wade denied and pleaded, not that he couldn’t beat the rookie in a fight but he had just bought some knew stuff for his place and it’d be great if he could like, use them, before they were trashed.

“You posted pictures online!” Bullseye yelled and turned a shade of red not usually seen on human skin, a vein in his forehead bulging and throbbing ominously.

“I— what? What pictures?” Wade wondered in incomprehension. Bullseye grabbed him by his throat and smashed him against a wall, his face just inches from him.

“Pictures of you and me,” Bullseye gritted between clenched teeth as if just uttering the words made him feel sick. His teeth were by the way rather very white, Wade wondered if he had had them bleached or if he’d finally lost enough teeth to replace them all with fakes.

“Oh, those pictures!” Wade blurted out as memory knocked on his door. “C’mon it’s not like they’re too compromising, I keep those pictures locked away in a very safe place for very special blackmail opportunities, these are just a little bit of harmless fun with your S.O.”

“HARMLESS FUN?” Bullseye screeched. Evidently, that hadn’t been the right thing to say.

“Yeah, like we planned—” Wade started but was stopped as Bullseye really started to crush his throat.

“I never said anything about pictures. Just a few nights out and some missed fucking calls, just rile him a little bit, before spilling that I was having him on for being an asshole. I did not say ‘hey, man, why don’t you post shit of me drunk, naked and passed out in your bed while you’re also in it’ or any other shit you could get your hands on, now did I?” Bullseye seethed and continued to try to manually crush Wade’s windpipe, not that it wouldn’t grow back just it was really uncomfortable and he was like this close to passing out.

Suddenly, Bullseye let go and dropped him to the floor. Blearily, as he tried to get some air in his lungs and then to his brain to make a semblance of functioning, Wade watched Bullseye crash on his couch. Wade coughed and wheezed and felt for a moment a bit bad about the whole affair. It wasn’t like good ole rookie to pass by an opportunity to play find the spleen or crush the kneecaps when given the chance and motivation to do so. It was a bit disappointing.

“Hey, man. I dunno what’s up but—” Wade started, his usual Demi Moore voice a bit huskier than usual, but Bullseye interrupted him.

“I think he’s breaking up with me,” Bullseye said in a flat voice, “or rather breaking me up for cheating on him.”

“But you didn’t! I mean it’s all a big misunderstanding,” Wade said and tried to illustrate the whole scope of the thing with various hand gestures, which just seemed to bemuse Bullseye.

“You try telling him that,” Bullseye said.

BWOOOM!

“What the FUCK was that?” Bullseye asked once the explosion went off, shaking the building at its foundations but not taking it down, though making a helluva mess of things.

“I- I think that was your soon-to-be ex-boyfriend saying ‘hello’,” Wade said nervously as he looked out of the window, seeing Daken standing on the street below them, claws drawn. Well, bummer.

“I’m outta here,” they said in unison and ran for another exit, which did not turn out to be the greatest of ideas. As soon as they set foot on the alley behind Wade’s place, Wade got kicked in the face and Bullseye in the groin by a very irate Daken.

“Don’t you think I wouldn’t knew where you’d go, dear? I fucking know everything about you!” Daken hissed and attacked again.

“Evidently not, shit-for-brains, if you think I’m having it with fucking Wilson! If you’d let me explain—” Bullseye retorted and blocked a high kick to his face.

“Yeah, like the last time when you told me you had fucked him!” Daken sneered, confirming Wade’s suspicion that any efforts Bullseye had made to stop or explain this mess had just made it worse. Dude was like the King of putting his foot in his mouth.

“While that is technically correct, it’s totally out of context, junior,” Wade put in and got a face full of claws for his efforts, proving that he probably shared regency with Bullseye.

“I think I’ll exit this domestic dispute now, best leave you lovebirds to sort this out on your own,” Wade continued nervously and tried to make a run for it.

“I think not!” Daken snarled and again slashed at him with his claws, breaking tendons in Wade’s legs, causing him to fall like a marionette with its strings cut, which was totally not cool. I mean, he was no fucking Pinocchio and real boys did not get bested by a emo samurai hipster.

“Hey, are you deaf, junior? It was a joke, alright? Can’t you take a fucking joke?” Wade asked, twisting to pull his guns from their holsters and shot the feral mutant into Swiss cheese. Daken roared incomprehensibly, frothing at the mouth like a dog with rabies. Looked like daddy Wolverine wasn’t the only one prone to fits of EXTREME rage á la 90’s when he had his berserk buttons pressed. Good to know, if a bit belated.

“Guess not,” Wade said to himself and continued shooting, blowing off a good part of Junior’s face. Daken growled and fell to one knee, looking like something from a bad horror/slasher movie.

“Lay off him, Wilson,” Bullseye said and tried to get closer to Daken. Unfortunately, that was when Daken leaped and pinned him down on the ground, dripping blood on him and growling in his face.

“Daken! Fucking listen to me! We were just having you on for fun—” Bullseye started but was headbanged on the nose by Daken, breaking it with an audible wet crackle.

“Mutherffffuckin’ ‘ell! Urk!” Bullseye choked as blood ran down his nose to his throat, which was made worse as Daken, grinning like a loon, started to strangle him. Wade took his chance and shot at him again but Daken paid him no heed.

“Ghgk! Da-ken!” Bullseye gasped, “I… l-love you… you idiot. Gngh!”

Daken didn’t even flinch.

“I think we’ve had enough of the breath play for today, Junior,” Wade said and shot Daken point blank in the back of the head. Eyes rolling back in his skull, Daken slumped on top of Bullseye, his grip around his throat finally relaxing.

“Fuck! Fucking fuck! FUCK!” Bullseye ranted, his voice ragged, and rolled Daken off him onto the ground.

“Yeah, I got it the first time, dudebro. A thanks would be nice though,” Wade griped and holstered his gun.

“Thanks?! This is your fault, you idiot! I never should have listen to your stupid ideas! I had something good going on and you fucking ruined everything!” Bullseye yelled and took Daken’s head in his lap.

Wade was starting to feel that everyone was communicating in all caps today and abusing their exclamation mark privileges. He’d go deaf at this rate. Or was it non-PC to say that? He’d become hard of hearing, yeah. Or was it hearing-impaired? He’d always been a handi-capable kind of guy anyhow.

“My fault? You can’t blame me for your dysfunctional relationship and lacking communication, man. Even if this had been real, most peeps just settle for petty revenge like busting your record collection of putting laxatives in your coffee, not blowing up buildings and trying to kill a guy. Especially after the fact that YOU gave him a second chance last time around in this roller-coaster of crazy you two have going on. Oh no, this is all your own type of crazy. Not mine, Rookie,” Wade said and turned to leave, he needed to clean up the debris from his apartment. He was pretty sure that explosion had ruined his kitchen.

“You know what? Fuck you,” Bullseye spat, fingering a throwing star but not throwing it.

“Right back at you, rookie,” Wade grumbled, fully aware of the fact that a week or a month from now Bullseye would kick in his door, they’d drink each other senseless and pretend this never happened. Just like every other time.

“You really didn’t cheat on me, did you?” Daken rasped, surprising them both.

“Nah, I’m good with you, you fucker. I like your brand of crazy better,” Bullseye replied after a shocked silence, wiping the blood off his mouth. They were both quiet for a while and did that whole eye-fucking thing that tumblr users obsessed over. Wade was totally a Dean-girl, er, guy. Dude, those lips of his were like totally worth insuring or something.

“Did you say you loved me, or was I just deluding myself?” Daken asked, blinking blood out of his eyes, suddenly sounding immensely pleased with himself.

“Fuck you,” Bullseye retorted, his face set in an embarrassed grimace.

“You did, didn’t you?” Daken asked impishly, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Not that it concerns me, but if you haven’t said the l-word to him after all this time, I almost can’t blame the guy for tearing you a new one, rookie,” Wade commented, for once not meaning ‘lesbian’ with the l-word. Not that he was much better with Nate, but hey they had a bromance of epic proportions and were beyond that kind of stuff.

“Go kill yourself, old man,” Bullseye said flatly and flipped him off.

“Get off my lawn, whippersnappers!” Deadpool retorted and left the pair of them in the alley, really not wanting to see the awkward moment they started to eat each other’s faces or whatever they did that passed off as super-villain make-up PDA. He really was too old for all this drama -- and those two were like the Royal Shakespearian Company when it came to drama and theatrics.


	7. Helping Hand

**November 2012 - New York**

”PARTY ROCK IS IN THE HOUSE TONIGHT! EVERYBODY JUST HAVE A GOOD TIME!” Deadpool sang, off-key and very, very poorly, and drank from the bottle of Tokaj and shimmied mindlessly across the living room floor, then breaking into Gangnam Style dancing.

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” Bullseye groaned from the ratty couch and drank his Stoli.

“But Rookie, we’re celebrating! It’s just been 65 hours of drinking and I haven’t even broken out the really good stuff yet!” Wade protested and adjusted his pink, sparkly Disney princess party hat, and contemplated raptor attacks and Golden Girls erotica. Wade had wanted Pony party hats but hadn’t found any, he had wanted to be Pinky Pie, but Belle from the Beauty & the Beast had to do.

“The fuck are we even celebrating? Fuck, I think my hangover is catching up with me…” Bullseye muttered miserably and then hiccuped. He, on the other hand, had ditched is party hat ages ago, as well as multiple times, to Deadpool’s great annoyance. It had been a nice hat with Cinderella and blue sparkles on it. Now is was a blood-soaked pulp on the kitchen floor.

“I have a new ongoing! New writers! New opportunities! And not just is some alternate universe we’re I kill everybody, though you opt out, you pussy, but in the regular canon universe! Isn’t that awesome?! I’m fucking stoaked! I’ve been promised dinosaurs and dead presidents! It’s the American Dream! Even if it did cost me my handsome looks, no offense to Way but after several years a guy needs some change in his life— EEEWWW!” Deadpool rambled as Bullseye vomited on his carpet. “Oh, that’s fucking gross, can’t you keep that on the inside or at least out of the window like normal people? ”

“I fucking hate you, Wilson,” Bullseye gritted out and blew chunks once more. It was like a Technicolor nightmare done in acid. Wade expected Oompa-Loompas, and Jefferson Airplane tunes.

“Naaaah, you don’t. You loooove me. I’m your bestest friend in the whole wide world. Princess Priss doesn’t count, you fuck but you’re not BFFs. I kinda feel sorry for you, Rookie, I’m all you got but me, I’ve got a ton of friends. Everybody loves me; I’m nearly as popular as Wolverine,” he exclaimed and jumped excitably.

“And now, I’m going to have the most awesome team-ups EVER. I little birdie told me that I get to team-up with THOR in my very first issue! I mean, how cool isn’t that? He’s so dreamy. And you, dudebro, are stuck with Princess Priss, no offense. It’s not like I discriminate or anything. But you really got the wrong end of the stick, if you know what I mean? The one with the poop on it,” Deadpool rambled and patted Bullseye on the back, rubbing circles across his shaking shoulders.

“Keep talking and I’ll show you who’s got the wrong end,” Bullseye growled, “and take your fucking hands off me.”

“No homo. It’s all alright,” Deadpool shushed him and jumped over the back off the couch to settle down next too him, feet up to avoid the projectile vomiting of course, one arm slung casually over Bullseye’s broad and muscled shoulders. “OK, maybe a little bit of homo.”

Bullseye hurled once more, this time also through his nose, and sobbed.

“Or maybe. Not. At. All.” Deadpool concluded and winced. “Seriously dude, you’re going to totally fuck up my floor like this. And I’m not cleaning that. Dude, what the fuck did you drink? Never-mind, I already know that, what did you EAT, seems to be the more relevant question. Did you go crazy at a sea food restaurant, because I think that was something living that just scuttled away. All Mr. Creosote at an All-You-Can-Eat-Shrimp $4.99?”

“I hate you. I really do,” Bullseye whimpered and clutched the coffee table like it was salvation. Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope!

“May the Force be with you, young padawan. You have much to learn of the noble art of the binge!” Deadpool declared gleefully and kissed Bullseye’s shiny bald head. Bullseye glared daggers at him but then burped, turned a shade of greyish-green and threw up once more all over the carpet, which, btw, Deadpool would have to feed to the flamethrower once Bullseye was done with it.

How much can one man’s stomach contain?

Normally around one liter, but up to four. Or if you’re morbidly obese that can rise exponentially.

Thank you, yellow box, for that disgusting infomercial.

“Right with you. Gimme a sec, I think that was your phone,” Deadpool said and reached for the burner phone on the table.

“Don’t you… fucken touch that,” Bullseye protested lamely, before settling back into his face-down-trying-his-best-not-to-puke-once-more pose.

“Hey! It’s a job! You gotta job! I thought no-one wanted your sorry ass after the Dark Avengers debacle and getting killed on LIVE TV. Congrats! Time and place is… huh, one hour from now in the lower East Side. Not too far from here, even with the subways flooded. You could be there in and out in like 15, buddy. Buddy? Bullseye? You alright?” Deadpool asked and peered at his friend, concerned. Bullseye groaned and hiccuped, his eyes looking rather glazed.

“Guess what, I think you deserve a break. I’ll deal with it, I might be out of the game a bit but this seems straight cut enough. Now who am I supposed to off? Never mind, silly me, you’ll have a photo on your cell, dontcha, lessee— nope, nope, ah here, his dude right? Gotcha. I’ll be back in a sec, Rookie, don’t worry I’ll take care of everything, for old time’s sake.” Deadpool said and patted Bullseye on the back once more, and then disappearing from the room. Seconds later he reappeared.

“You just, eh, try not to vomit your guts out, I did that once, not fun. Like seriously. Or choke. That’s nasty. And remember to hydrate! Bye!” Wade chirped and waved goodbye, grabbing a few of his favorite guns.

“No… wait…. Motherfucker! It’s not a that kinda hit!” Bullseye protested to the empty apartment, once his brain caught up with what had just happened

“I’m going to fuckin’ kill him,” he concluded miserably and tried to shamble onto his feet, and lost whatever he had left in his stomach.

Meanwhile, Deadpool was merrily heading to the lower East Side. The dark and damp streets were a strange sight but made good covered for a heavily armed merc wearing a stolen raincoat and booties. The job would be a piece of cake, once he found the mark of course. Wade figured he’d gotten a bit turned around on Madison and that he was at the wrong park. Still, he had about twenty minutes. He got to the site in ten and with a pizza with a burnt crust and anchovies. God bless America.

His target was in place, he had his guns and really, he could take the shot at any moment. But where was the fun in that? The mark, Deadpool dubbed him Marky Moose, was a twenty something douchebag who stank of cash and Axe body spray, likely to have swum in from the Jersey Shore - the TV show. He wasn’t surprised that someone had put a hit on this douchenozzle, Wade might even have done it for free once upon a time. Justifying this hit was no problem-o, it was a public motherfucking service.

Marky Moose was currently chatting up some very mob-like looking fellows and would presumably be preoccupied with them a little longer. Plenty of time for Deadpool to prepare.

It was as he was on the roof, putting up the finishing touches to his ingenious master plan, that someone decided to garrote him. Instead of panicking like lesser mortals, Wade most awesomely did his super special anti-choke move. It was super ineffective. The guy knew what he was doing despite smelling like an Russian drunkard.

It wasn’t until the stench of vodka and vomit was combined with a running litany of profanities and creative threats that Deadpool recognized his assailant.

“Rrgrkkee!” Wade greeted his irate friend. Moments later, Bullseye released him. Gasping for air and rubbing his bleeding throat, Wade sat down on the ledge.

“Way to say ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’, B,” Deadpool griped and shot his fellow assassin a sour look through his mask. Bullseye not only stank like crap he also looked the part and didn’t seem to give a damn about Wade’s utterly legitimate complaints. Now, whereas Bullseye was the type of guy to kill you with a number #2 pencil for looking at him wrong or to happily jerk off into a pool of children’s tears, he usually wasn’t ungrateful.

“Thank you for killing my target? You expect me to thank you for running my mission?”Bullseye hissed in Wade’s face and held a blade to his eye.

“Eh, he’s not supposed to die?” Wade asked.

“No, he’s not! He’s worth ten times more alive!” Bullseye hissed.

“Then you better hurry, ‘cause he ain’t dead yet. But he will be. In about thirty seconds, give or take,” Deadpool replied and shrugged.

“What did you do?”Bullseye asked, horrified and fascinated.

“That,” Deadpool replied and pointed.

“What?” Bullseye asked but his question was answered as the building next to them exploded.

The shock-wave had them falling down on the concrete, and the noise was enough to cancel out all sound. Deadpool saw Bullseye throw up, again, as the both crawled to their feet to look at the burning rubble of the house that had once contained Marky Moose and his pals. Well, arguably it still did just in a crispier and more disassembled state.

“—idiot. You motherfucking moron. I’m going to fucking take you apart.”

It was the first thing Deadpool could hear. It didn’t sound good. Though Bullseye seemed to be perfectly serene, if a bit singed and smelly, which had to be good, right? Then again last time Wade had heard anyone threaten him with that tone of voice he’d woken up half-naked at a Denny’s parking lot with 50,000 volts directly applied to his nipples, covered in flesh-eating bacteria, and, for some inexplicable reason, a bucket of raccoon heads, and three tickets to a Yankees game. It had been a very strange game of Strip Poker.

“The target was the idiot son of a drug lord who had gone into weapon’s trafficking. I was supposed to ensure that the trade went off smooth and then to kill everyone except the little punk. You just cost me three mil and a long term contact,” Bullseye confessed.

“I guess giving you the suitcases with the actually money he had intended to use to pay off the mobsters might smooth over the whole affair,” Deadpool responded and raised a heavy suitcase. “I think it’s about five mill, whaddya think?”

“I don’t even want to know. Don’t ever help me again and we’ll call it quits,” Bullseye agreed, took the case and ambled off.

“Hey, what about our party?” Deadpool shouted at his retreating back. Bullseye flipped him off.

“Asshole,” Wade muttered just as his old pal stumbled and fell down the stairs.

“You alive?” he hollered.

“’m fine,” Rookie grunted in reply.

“I’m going to have to carry you, ain’t I?” ‘Pool asked and walked down the stairs. “How did you even get here?”

“I stole a car,” Bullseye muttered petulantly from the floor. “Kidnapped a driver.”

“How very responsible of you. Now up you go,” Wade remarked and hoisted his friend on his back and took the case in hand.”Ouhf! Try to hang on for fuck’s sake.”

“Fuck you,” Bullseye mumbled but hung on like a particularly smelly koala.

“Yeah, love you too, buddy. If you puke on me I’ll leave you in the gutter, get me?” Wade grumbled and walked homeward, telling Bullseye all about Adventure Time.


	8. Something like Self-Respect

**December 2013 - New York**

There should be a blood-to-sex ratio calculator app to determine where and when it crosses the line from kinky to just plain insane. With like a really annoying alarm that keeps the crazy off you or you off the crazy, whichever. Now while Wade did not have such an app on his phone he was pretty sure that he could make an educated guess: Bullseye was firmly in the latter category.

He’d known him for ages, like the entire 90’s were their brotp years — a good bit after that too. Good times. The bits he could remember that is. But they’d drifted when Wade had decided to go Light Side and cut down on the murder for profit. Recently Bullseye had drifted back in to his life with a healthy dose of sex, violence and ridiculous amounts of alcohol. It had gone worse after the first time Daken died, and doubly so the second. Lester didn’t function well with loss.

Wade had started to realize that it might have veered a bit too heavily in the country of the downright disturbing. Fighting Rookie tooth and nail was fine and all, it was to be expected and wanted, but Bullseye’s bedroom habits were somehow more insane and gory than his fighting, and they'd gotten worse. And Deadpool was no stranger to either.

Back in the way back, Wade had tolerated this. Thought it was the best he could manage on his dark days. Later, he'd been more inclined to just send his old friend packing back to his trashy Wolverine copy - who btw seemed to have been into everything - when he turned up on his doorstep drunk and horny. But that was no longer an option, so he just had to pretend not to be home those times. It made him feel like a shitty friend but it was for the best.

“’Pool! Fucking freezing my balls off here! Buzz me in, you fucker!”

Then there were the days that Wade caved in like a house of cards.

“Seriously, Bullwinkle, who in the name of Bea Arthur goes out in this weather?” Wade wondered as his snow covered assassin friend hurried in, still shivering and cursing under his breath.

“Had a job. Got trapped in town. Need a place to crash, also you always have vodka,” Bullseye muttered and undressed from his cold clothes down to his boxers, scattering the clothes and assorted weapons around him like litter, as he made his way to the kitchen cupboard where Wade usually kept the vodka. “Do you have anything warm? I’m still freezing,” he continued after downing half a bottle of Stoli. It was his favorite. Wade made sure to have a bottle lying around for him.

Wade let his mouth go on autopilot about what he’d been up to the past year - omitting anything about Preston since that was something he didn’t want Bullcookie to get his hands on - as he rummaged for something mostly clean, finding a pink fluffy bathrobe that he could have sworn wasn’t his but it smelled vaguely like burritos so it must have been. After a few more moments he found a matching pair of slippers. There was a gun in one slipper, which made very little sense but seemed appropriate. Removing said piece and checking the pockets for other weaponry, Wade decided that it would have to do.

“What the fuck is that?” Bullseye grimaced and drank more vodka. The word ‘intervention’ echoed in Deadpool’s picture gallery of a brain like a dime on marble floor, but he knew grief far too well to want to do anything lightly. He’d lost everything more than once. Rookie was entitled to deal with his the best he could, even if it had been a long time.

“It’s warm and dry, mister fussy-pants,” Wade countered instead and threw it in his face. Bullseye still looked good, scars and all, and Wade had always been a sucker for a rock hard bod and a bright smile. However, he felt better seeing him dressed in the silly pink robe and slippers. Even took a picture when Bullseye wasn’t looking. Letting perfectly good blackmail material pass him by wasn’t something he’d do.

“I look like a putz,” Bullseye gripped staring down at the fuzzy pinkness that hung loosely on his lean frame. Then again, Wade had a good two inches on him and had a broader build.

“I’d say more of a schlump. You’re just missing a half dozen hungry cats. Heard that Gambits gone catdad, by the by. Cats are totally a thing,” Wade explained and puttered about into the kitchen, fixing up some hot chocolate with some rum for kick.

“Gee, thanks. I feel so much better,” Bullseye sneered and gulped down more vodka.

“You’re welcome.”

“Don’t be stingy on the marshmallows.”

“As if I would. What do you think of me? That I’m some kind of monster?” Deadpool handed him a big cup, with plenty of marshmallows, in his free hand. Bullseye wandered away to his customary seat on the couch, drinking vodka and cocoa. It was a sad and pathetic picture he made and Wade cringed at the sight. GTAV was the only solution. Thank god for video games.

“Co-op? Seriously, bro?” Bullseye whined and glared at the console.

“Sure. We’ll be a great team-up.”

“I’m not doing this. You gotta have something else?”

“Ehh, Avengers Assemble?”

“What?”

“It’s a game. You get to pick any Avenger and fight each other. There are even alternate costumes.”

“—-Dibs on Wolverine.”

“Sweet. I’m going with Doc Strange.” The game was vicious and they both cheated like fuck but after the fifth consecutive loss Wade admitted defeat. Bullseye had a great technique going on once he got a hang of the game.

They were comfortably tipsy at this point but Bullseye was still going on like a champ and starting to lose the little good cheer wanton destruction elicited. Wade did his best to distract with a long-winded speech on why film noir was superior to most things barring Golden Girls. Bullseye didn’t argue, but didn’t seem very engaged, despite the fact that he loved Bogart.

Deadpool knew that things were going badly when Lester started to get cuddly, leaning on him and curling up on the couch. There was right about three ways that things could escalate now. 1) He’d get angry and violent, 2) sad and crying, and 3) disturbingly horny and a combination of the other two. Wade could deal with number one, but two and three freaked him out and never worked out well.

Perhaps if he started an argument or just punched him things would just be settled with blood and destruction. Or he could knock him out cold and have him sleep it out. Wade was bad enough with his own feelings without having to deal with Rookie’s frequent mental breakdowns.

But he was too late. The crying had already started. Option two it was.

Fuck, shouldn’t he be taking a pill or something?

“Hey, B. It’s gonna be OK. You know no one stays dead - you didn’t. I didn’t. And the sniktlings are even worse,” he tried but Bullseye continued to blubber, shaking in his fluffy pink robe. Wade was starting to think that alcohol totally fucked over whatever medication B was on, it was the only explanation. Well, that and the psychosis he (dys-)functioned and lived with.

Deadpool’s chain of thought was broken by a hand slinking under his t-shirt.

RED ALERT: STAGE THREE INITIATED!

With an unusual level of mental steadfastness, Wade grabbed Lester by the wrist and took his hand off him. Rookie was still crying and looking like someone canceled the production of sharp implements, but Wade was resolute for this not to escalate into the kind of clusterfuck of crazy that was their specialty. He wasn’t about to be Bullcookie’s fucked up grief-management fuck, not again. It hurt too much in every sense of the word.

Bullseye snarled and sobbed, struggling in his grip and howling profanities between cries. Deadpool let him fight as much as he pleased, the bruises and the cuts would soon disappear and he could take it. A lot of collateral damage later, B slumped against him again in fatigue and defeat. Wade would demand a new XBox from him later, and dry cleaning. Also, he was pretty sure he could be picking glass out of his body for ages.

“It’s gonna be alright, buddy,” Wade repeated and held him.

“—I miss him,” Lester gasped and hiccuped, “it hurts. Why does it hurt?”

“I don’t know.”

“Make it stop.”

“I can’t,” Wade replied and wiped his face with a pink fluffy sleeve. It stained red with blood. He sat with him until Rookie stopped shaking.

“You want some more cocoa? I have more marshmallows.”

“Yeah, why not,” Rookie sniveled, bucking up a bit.

“We can go and throw snowballs at people later.”

“What are you? Nine?”

“Nah, but I got a snow cannon.”

“That sounds tempting.”

“Bonus points for hitting a super hero.”

“You’re on.”


	9. Better Days

**April 2014 - New York**

Deadpool wasn’t surprised to have his door kicked in five am in the morning, and barely lifted an eyebrow at Bullseye bursting in in an irate state.

"You can’t have my bathrobe this time, since I’m wearing it," Wade remarked and sipped at his coffee, indicating the pink fuzzy robe he was wearing. "So on a scale from dude on the street looked at you wrong to Junior, how pissed are you?"

"Boomer pissed me off. He’s been spreading lies about me and I can’t find the little shit." Bullseye grumbled and flopped on the couch, waving at Wade in a manner as to indicate the need for immediate drunkenness. Wade threw a bottle at him, Stolichnaya as always, which he caught expertly. He'd been turning up regularly again, more or less sane by his standards, and Wade had no issues enabling him again.

"So what’s Freddie been saying?" Deadpool asked and sauntered to the couch, leaning on it and drinking his coffee. "Anything funny? Like indecent liaisons with a goat or embarrassing Spider-Man underwear situations?"

"He’s said that his little pencil dick is bigger than mine," Bullseye growled. Wade choked on his coffee a little. It wasn't what he'd expected.

"Yeah, can you believe it? Fucking gonna kill him, perhaps have him choke to death on my cock since he seems so keen on it," Bullseye spat and then drank down half the bottle in one swipe. Bullcookie had happily reentered the closet during the year but that did little to change the fact.

"Doubt that will help your rep though," Deadpool laughed. "I have a better idea! Fight fire with fire. I have like a dozen great ideas of rumors we could spread—"

"Boomer doesn’t have a rep to protect. But fire, that sounds fun. I like a good barbecue. Should string him up on a lamp post somewhere public, naked, and burn him to death," Bullseye hissed maliciously, finishing off his bottle with single-minded determination. "Who the fuck does he think he is talking shit about a man’s cock?”

"—uuuh."

"Yeah! I mean does he think he can get away with shit like that. My cock is huge. You don’t fucking believe me?" Bullseye asked, mad eyed, when Wade made a vague noise at the wrong time. Mayday. Mayday! Abort mission.

"Hey, man. I err— know the size of your winky. Huge. Enormous even."

"You fucking with me, Wilson? Are you?” Bullseye snarled and undid his pants demonstratively.

"Oh God. No need to show and tell—” Wade started but was treated to the full monty regardless as Bullseye stood up. He hadn’t lied about it’s size. He gripped his coffee tightly and tried to look Rookie in the face instead. He did his not to think of the last time they fucked, or about fucking in general. 

"Fucking see? Boomer ain’t got shit on me," Bullseye growled and grabbed him by the back of the neck. "Fucking little pencil dick Freddie is jealous of my cock."

Deadpool was starting to think that Bullcookie had been drunk upon arrival, and that the rage boner he had for Boomer hadn’t exactly helped. Nor did the actual boner he was starting to pop. "Yeah, I see, buddy. How about you put your pants back on? Or you could borrow my robe after all I’ll just go and put my Spider-Man PJs on and we’ll watch some TV have a beer—" Wade rambled and tried to find a strategic retreat. Perhaps knocking him out was the best idea.

"Are you insulting my cock?" Bullseye asked in a menacing growl, griping him tightly. Deadpool tried to figure out if that was one of the strangest questions he’s been asked or not. It was a close call.

"Nope. No. It’s a great cock. Women and men all across the world love it. Probably a few other species too. Best reviews ever. A+ grade. Wolvie Junior advertised it as your best asset. Piece of art really." Deadpool responded on auto-pilot while shaking his head, then nodding and making thumbs up with his free hand. Bullseye stared at him with a very concentrated look.

"Boomer lieeeeessss,” he repeated in a determined way. Deadpool prayed that he would pass out before really bad decisions were made.

No such luck.

Bullseye pressed their mouths together, leaning up slightly to accommodate for the height difference. Wade dropped his cup with a clatter and splatter of hot coffee. His hand was put on A+ grade cock and Bullseye thrust into his grip, all while sucking his tongue and mouth raping him. It was nice in a kind of this wasn’t what I expected to spend my Tuesday morning with but why not. Bullseye was an expert at making bad decisions seem like great ideas. At least this time he wouldn't have to wash off blood.

Wade jerked his old friend off right there in his faded pink, fuzzy bathrobe, five am in the morning. Rookie would probably pass out in a few, he’d dump him on the couch and let him sleep it off. But right now it was just nice to make out with him, drunk or not, and watch his face as he did. Bullseye made the best faces.

He’d have all the time in the world to feel bad about it later.


End file.
